by Ted Bell
Suddenly he was aware of white-suited bodies flying up in front of him, all around him and bouncing off his windshield . . . slamming down hard upon his roof! He was ripping right through the mass of Swiss army regulars who’d been positioned behind the two Sno-Cats he’d just sent plunging down into the deep gorge below. Holy shit!
He’d made it through!
Yes! He’d blown the two big Sno-Cats off the bridge! He’d seen the one on the left in the rearview, hurtling down into the dark depths of the crevasse. And ahead of him? The expanse of bridge ahead was wide open all the way to the far side. No more troops up ahead waiting for him on the other side, no tanks, no fucking enemy fighter jets rattling his cage. Shit! Hellfire, it looked like maybe he was going to pull this bastard off, after all . . .
The first indication that all was not rosy ahead was a thin line of white-hot fire rising up along the far side of the bridge. Fuck! Right where the last span was joined to its massive concrete anchor, a structure embedded deep into the mountainside opposite. Eyes wide with horror, Beau saw that the spiking fire was now turning along the center line of the suspension bridge roadway and speeding this way. Fire and smoke were growing in strength by the second, the deadly line of fire racing directly toward his Swiss cheese truck and—
He shot a glance at his outside rearview mirror, still intact. Christ, a good half of the Overkill convoy was out here with him on the burning span, tucked in right behind him! Just as he’d ordered. Not even enough time for him to warn them to jump down and run for it!
As he watched in horror, the fire seemed to whip and fling its blazing tentacles everywhere, wrapping itself around the roadway, licking up the bridge’s twin support towers . . . sprinting along the suspension cables . . . ever closer! He downshifted and slammed his boot down on the accelerator. His only hope was to try to outrun the fire, get to the far side before it got to him.
“Hold on, Beau, hold on!” he heard himself shouting . . .
Suddenly the entire bridge was rocked with the blasts of separate explosive charges mounted under the superstructure. And now whole sections were exploding and collapsing, falling away and dropping down to disappear in the mist at the bottom of the gorge. The bridge was quickly losing any connection at all with the anchorage on the far side! All of it, everything solid disintegrating around him, over and under his truck . . . his doomed convoy.
It was then that he could feel the whole world falling away from beneath him . . . in free fall now . . . watching the truck’s big diesel engine spinning in space in slow motion all by itself . . . and feeling the searing pain of his clothes, his skin on fire. Flailing away, clawing at the air . . . screaming all the way down . . .
And then, finally, and through no wish of his own, that old scoundrel Colonel Brett “Beau” Beauregard, along with all of his lifelong dreams of guts and glory, was suddenly and most definitely . . . dead.
Chapter Ninety-Two
The siege of Falcon’s Lair
“Pity about the lovely doors,” Hawke said to his demo man, Chief Rainwater, as the top commando’s finger hovered over the detonate switch. The ice-coated doors were just the first of many things Hawke had admired when he was first granted admittance into Falcon’s Lair by the previous owner, the Sorcerer.
Custom-built by the famous Krupp Arms Company in Germany’s Ruhr Valley, the primary producer of heavy arms for Hitler’s Wehrmacht, the doors at the entrance to Falcon’s Lair were solid forged German steel. They featured elaborately carved Alpine scenes designed by Albert Speer, the Nazi architect who’d worked on Falcon’s Lair. Three feet thick and each weighing in at about two tons, the two doors were works of art—in Hawke’s mind, anyway.
“Still time to change your mind, Commander.” Rainwater grinned.
“Blow the damn doors, Chief!” Hawke said, whirling about to fire at a bloodied and supine enemy fighter raising his weapon against them. The resistance outside on the ledge had all been negated or had melted away down the mountain. At one point, Putin’s men, recognizing that they had been badly deceived and knowing that their numbers were no longer in their favor, had folded their tents and run away.
Hawke’s men had suffered, too. Four killed and five wounded. The remaining nineteen or so fighters, under the command of Stokely Jones, had all assembled outside the entrance to the complex.
“Aye aye, Commander,” the chief responded and, depressing the button, blew those damn doors right off their hinges and into the semi-dark interior. As quickly as the smoke cleared, they were inside and saw—
Nothing.
No one, anywhere. A cavernous space, dark and empty. And it was so cold they could see their breath, all of them stomping their boots to warm their feet. Colder than outside? Hawke wondered. How could that be?
Stoke said, “Over here, boss! I got one. He’s maybe just a little dead, though.”
Hawke ducked into the high-vaulted corridor where Stoke and Harry Brock had gone in search of enemy combatants. Hardly any light in here. He flicked on his tactical flashlight and saw faint light coming through the doorway of the far room on the left.
“Stoke,” Hawke said, “what the hell?”
“Yeah,” Stoke said. He and Brock were standing over what was left of a butchered corpse that looked like it had swallowed a bomb.
“Knife wounds,” Brock muttered. And Stoke said, “He’s been gutted, boss. Why the hell would anybody do—”
Hawke bent for a closer look. He’d seen such wounds once before, on a beach in Morocco.
“Shit Smith,” was all Hawke had to say.
“That weird cowboy dude?” Stoke said. “In Alexei’s room with Uncle Joe?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Hawke said. “Same bastard that chopped up my copilot, Johnnie Walker, in Morocco. Mr. Brock, go get our guys. Let’s go find Joe. He’ll be with Putin. Come on, it’s this way. Putin’s office is one flight up.”
There was a broad staircase at the end of the corridor. It had huge bronze sconces all the way up the walls on both sides, but they’d all been extinguished. Still, you could see all the blood.
It was everywhere, spilling down the steps like a thick red waterfall and putting Hawke in mind of that great movie The Shining.
And then there were more freshly mutilated corpses—mostly civilians, oddly enough.
Bodies everywhere. Shit had gone on a killing rampage, Hawke thought, knifing anyone and everyone he could find. Hawke’s commandos raced up the steps, leaping over bodies sprawled in their path. Hawke had a sudden sense of urgency. If Shit had truly gone insane, had he killed everyone? Including Uncle Joe, the strange little man who’d spared Alexei from Putin’s wrath?
“This way!” Hawke cried out and ran up the stairs leading to Putin’s office. “Come on, Stoke!” he shouted.
The door was open and they burst inside, weapons at the ready.
There was a heavyset silver-haired man seated at Putin’s desk.
Not Putin, but a heavily decorated Russian military officer. A general? He had his eyes closed and was rocking back and forth in the chair, moaning. Hawke went to him and saw that he had his fingers interlaced across his belly, trying hard to hold his guts inside.
“Stoke!” Hawke said. “Get the medic in here to attend to this man. General, can you hear me? Can you speak?”
His voice was harsh and raw.
“Yes . . .” he croaked.
“I’ve come for President Putin. Get him to stop the killing.”
“Too late,” the Russian croaked. “They’re all dead. Putin and the cowboy and a couple of others are maybe still alive. They killed all of us . . . lined us up against the walls and started—”
“Sir, where is Putin now? Please tell me, General. This man will sew you up, sir. Just hold on.”
“Up in the residence. It’s on the—”
“Top floor. I know. You think he’s up there?”
“He was. Don’t know now. He’s been locking himself in there for two days . . . drinking .
. . he and that crazy fucking cowboy friend of his.”
Hawke sprinted up the staircase. His men were right behind him, weapons at the ready. No blood here. But very still and quiet as a crypt. As if everyone inside the mountain was dead.
At the top, they found themselves in a great hall with black-and-white marble floors. Guttering candles in the sconces on the wall provided a dim, wavering light, and a huge crystal chandelier was illuminated as well.
Hawke had seen the Sorcerer’s, now Putin’s, bedroom on his first visit to Falcon’s Lair. It had been lavishly decorated and nothing had changed, he now saw through the double doors that hung wide open. Except that all of the furniture had been turned upside down and there was blood spatter on the walls. He raised his right fist and the men behind came to a halt.
“I go in first,” he said simply, and strode across the marble floors and into the dimly lit room. “Give me two minutes . . .”
He took three steps forward, then stopped stock-still and said, “Oh my god.”
The entire bedroom looked like a war zone. Upended furniture, smashed mirrors, and two naked bodies, a man and a woman, sprawled across the huge expanse of bloody bedcovers, their arms and limbs intertwined as if killed in a moment of passion. They looked to be dead. He recognized the man.
It was the bloody ghost of Uncle Joe, still alive, his lips moving, his chest heaving, beckoning to Hawke with his finger . . .
Chapter Ninety-Three
Hawke spoke quietly into his lip mike and said, “Stoke, I’ve got at least one still alive in here. Get the medic in here now!”
He heard a grunt from the bed and then: “Alex,” Joe whispered hoarsely. “Come over here . . . please . . .”
“Joe,” he said, going to him, taking his bloody wrist and feeling for the strength of his pulse.
“No, no. Not me, I’m going to make it. Check her, Alex, please get Emma some help. Shit was brutal. He raped her and then started slicing at her with that motherfucking bowie knife of his and—”
Stoke was at Hawke’s side. “Talk to me, boss. What do we need?”
Hawke said, “You and the corpsman attend to the woman first. She’s the most grievously wounded, multiple stab wounds, lost a lot of blood. I’ll look after Joe here.”
“On it,” Stoke said and nodded to the young medic.
Hawke hurried into the bathroom and returned with steaming hot towels. He started by wiping the blood from Joe’s eyes, from his face, out of his mouth. “Jesus, Joe. What the hell happened here?”
“Is she still alive, Alex? Tell me she is,” Joe said through his pain.
Hawke looked at Stoke and the young medic. “Stoke? Is she breathing? Will she make it?”
“Maybe. She’s got a slim shot, is my guess. Corpsman agrees. But at least a strong heartbeat, boss.”
“Alex? Talk to me, for crissakes!” Joe groaned.
“Calm down, Joe. She’s going to be okay. Heartbeat is strong. We’re working to stem the bleeding.”
“Oh, thank god. Thank god.” Joe was weeping.
“Who is she, Joe?”
“Emma. Emma Peek is her name. We were going to get married after all this was over.”
“Shh. You still can, Joe. Just hold on to that thought until we get you two all stitched up and into the sickbay, okay? Now, tell me what the hell’s been happening here.”
“A fuckin’ nightmare, that’s what. Putin and Shit Smith. They were drinking all last night and all day today. They feed off each other and they are both insane. Putin’s anger at you for the failure of all of his grand plans, and the cowboy’s fury at seeing his new mentor being humiliated by you once more . . . and rage at me for helping you rescue Alexei . . .”
“Where is he, Joe? Where’s Putin? I’m going to add to his rage right now.”
“You can’t, Alex.”
“Please tell me why not.”
“They escaped. The two of them.”
“Gone? How? What happened?”
“First, you were knock, knock, knocking on Putin’s door, storming inside to take him. Then, when he found out that there would be no stolen gold, that Colonel Beauregard and half of his convoy got blown off the bridge en route to the gold vaults they intended to loot, the man came completely unhinged. Ranting and raving, wild-eyed, screaming at me and threatening to shoot everyone who got in his way.”
“I knew he was losing it, but I had no idea, Joe.”
“Who did? Emma came to me in near hysterics. She’d overheard Volodya and that goddamn Shit whispering down there in the kitchen. They were laughing, for crissakes, talking about murdering the two of us. Saving the best for last, was how Putin put it to the cowboy.”
“Christ, Joe.”
“Yeah. So Emma and I figured we were done for, right? What the hell? We raced up here and barricaded ourselves in this bedroom as best we could. Then we got into bed and decided we’d go out with smiles on our faces and then . . . and then . . .”
“Don’t talk about it. I can only imagine what they did to—”
“The two of them, howling like maniacs, broke into the room, tore up the place. Putin had the gun, Shit had the knife. The president held the gun to my head. He was staring at Emma, ripped the sheet off her naked body, a horrible smile on his face. I think he always thought she should be his, not mine. It drove him crazy that she would pick me over him.”
“Yeah, I can see it.”
“Then he told the cowboy, he says, ‘That bitch is all yours, Shit. Do whatever you want with her. Take your time, too. No rush . . .’”
“No more, Joe. Stop torturing yourself.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. But you need to know something, Alex.”
“I’m listening.”
“I heard Shit promise Putin that he would track you down and make you suffer before you died. He said he’d do it for free, but Putin said he’d give him five million for your head on a platter.”
“Hold my hand, I’m scared,” Hawke said, smiling at him.
“You gotta take this guy Shit seriously, Alex. He’s a bona fide human death machine.”
“Yeah, well, human death machines come and human death machines go, don’t they? Tell me about Putin. Where is he? Right now?”
“He and Shit could be anywhere by now, Alex.”
“The two of them left the mountain? How the hell did they get out?”
“Used the sub.”
“The sub? The Sorcerer told me six months ago that he had shut that whole underwater operation down due to expenses.”
“Yeah, well, Putin re-upped the whole underwater operation. He must have always known it would be his only escape hatch if it ever came to that. For the last two days, he’s kept Horst in the four-man sub down there waiting for him at the underwater air lock. Waiting the whole time the massacre was going on. He and Shit left an hour ago.”
“I’ll find that son of a bitch. Where do you think he’d run?”
“I’m sure he went south to Italy. That’s what I’d do. Keep the sub submerged all the way to the southern end of the lake, have a car waiting for them late tonight . . . Who knows after that? Closest airport is at Milano, maybe.”
That evening, Hawke and Stoke dined in Falcon’s Lair’s formal candlelit dining room. They were all trying hard to make it some kind of victory celebration. But the smell and presence of so much recent death hung heavy upon the room, and it was rough sledding for all.
At table were a heavily bandaged Emma Peek and a recovering Joe Stalingrad, desperately holding hands with each other throughout the meal. Joining them were Artemis Cooper, Harry Brock, Chief Charlie Rainwater, and FitzHugh McCoy. As well as the much-restored General Ivan Spassky of the Russian army who was well into the vodka despite the medic’s warning about it.
The gleaming mahogany sideboard was laden with a mountain of Beluga caviar, champagne, hillocks of potato salad with pickles, and best of all, chef de cuisine Stokely Jones Jr.’s own recipe for buttermilk southern fried chicken, sh
owcased and steaming on heaping silver platters.
At eight o’clock, Stoke leaned over to Hawke and whispered, “Eight on the button, Commander. You asked me to remind you.”
“Right, I did. I’ll be right back,” Hawke said, “please excuse me.” He left the table and went directly to Putin’s office, where he closed and locked the double doors. With a sigh of exhaustion, he took the red leather chair behind the desk, lit a cigarette, took out his mobile, and punched in the primary number at his primary residence, Hawkesmoor.
“Lord Hawke’s residence, may I help you?” he heard Pelham Grenville say in his flutiest tones.
“Yes, you can help me, you old dickens. How the hell are you?”
“Very well indeed, m’lord. Awfully good to hear your voice, to be perfectly honest. You sound tired, my boy.”
“Yes, but I’ll be home tomorrow. Pelham, tell me, how is Alexei? Is he having a fun birthday? I’m so sorry to be missing it, but, you know, duty calls.”
“I completely understand, m’lord. And I should say he is enjoying his big day most wholeheartedly, sir! That pony! He’s beside himself! The animal arrived early this morning on a lorry up from Cirencester. What a lovely creature. And Alexei is already sodden with love for him. He and the groom, young Fellowes, have been out riding over hill and dale all day long. I literally had to drag him out of the saddle in time for his birthday party, sir.”
“How many children came, Pelham?” Hawke said, beginning to relax with the happy sense that life was somehow returning to normal again.
“We had twenty-two, sir, including the Duke and Duchess of Kent, who stopped by with the children. I must say, Alexei and Prince George have become fast friends at Eton. Great fun, sir! Boisterous, I must say.”
Hawke smiled. “Well, marvelous. Has he named the animal yet?”